Delusions of a Normal Life
by Patruelis Omnis
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John tries to live a normal life after his best friend dies, but when you've known Sherlock as well as John has, you tend to pick up a few things. Like solving crimes. John's POV. No Johnlock, no slash. Rated T for reference to suicide.
1. Anonymous Tips

A month after visiting Sherlock's grave, John returned Baker Street. It was his flat, after all, and he knew Mrs. Hudson would never just toss him out into the streets. _I need a better job,_ he often thought. _I can't keep on just paying only half the rent._

All Sherlock's science equipment and experiments had been sent to Barts. Sherlock had never kept notes on his experiments so the people who worked in the morgue had to guess what he was trying to do with them. Molly was doing a great job a guessing, apparently, because she kept on with his experiments. Some of them, at least.

_Too good,_ John thought sometimes. _Maybe someone was telling her what the experiment was, maybe he was still alive, feeding her information, keeping his experiments going._

John tried to quell these thoughts as they came. _He has to be dead._ John reminded himself. _He has to be dead, because he can't not be himself for this long._

But sometimes, there were these things that made him doubt that. Small things, little things that someone else may not have noticed. A few months after Sherlock died, Lestrade dropped in on John while he was working.

"Did you hear that Anderson and his wife are getting a divorce?" He asked.

John wasn't surprised. "Oh?" was all he said.

DI Lestrade nodded. "It seems that someone told her about Anderson's affair."

John was surprised at this. "Really?"

Lestrade nodded again. "Was it you?" he asked a moment later.

"Why would you think that I did it?"

"Well, Sherlock was the one who noticed it first. He may have told you at some point, and maybe you wanted to punish Donovan and Anderson for accusing Sherlock?"

John shook his head. "I wouldn't do something like that. Although," he added. "If I'd have come up with it, I definitely would have given it some serious thought."

Then there was a brief silence.

"Just for the record," Lestrade finally said. "I know that everybody is so sure that he's guilty, but I don't. He couldn't have been behind it all, no matter how good he was. Could he?"

"You knew him as well as I did," John said.

Lestrade scoffed. "I doubt that."

"I don't think he could have killed anyone, or even let anyone get killed, just to prove he was clever. Maybe _let_ himself get hurt or even killed, but I didn't think capable of actively killing himself, except that... well."

"Yeah, the newspapers have seemed to forget about that a little," Lestrade mentioned.

John nodded. "Mycroft did whatever he could to bury the entire thing. I just hope it doesn't mean that everyone forgets Sherlock with it."

"Do you think that's what Moriarty wanted?" The inspector asked. "To bury Sherlock, literally and figuratively?"

"If he did, he seems to be doing a bang up job," John said. "Anything else going on? Anything interesting?" John was fishing. Looking for evidence that Sherlock was still alive.

He could tell that Lestrade knew what he was up to. But John was grateful that Lestrade decided to tell him anyway. "Yeah, a couple of us have been getting tips, good ones, some of cases."

"Don't you sometimes get help on cases anyway? What makes these so different?"

"They all seem to be from the same person. They're delivered by messenger in plain, white envelopes. Each time, the messenger says that someone calls and tells them where to pick up a manilla envelope, which contains two envelopes."

"Two envelopes… one for the messenger and the other for the police?" John said.

Lestrade nodded. "And all the callers sound different too. Only a few give their names, and they all say that a man gave them the envelope and instructions on where to leave it and what to say. Everything is untraceable."

"Well, that tells you something about the tipster." John said.

"That they are paranoid?" Lestrade asked.

John nodded. "Well that, and something else. How many tips have you gotten this way?"

"About seven or eight."

"And not one of them has anything on it?" John asked. "Not one spot of dust, ink, anything?"

Lestrade shook his head slowly. "Nothing."

"That tells you that he has access to a clean room. Hospital clean, or very nearly."

"So, what?" The detective said sarcastically. "Should I go to every hospital in the city and interview all the staff?"

"No, you wait for more evidence. Nobody is perfect. One of these days, whoever is sending the notes is going to slip up."

After a few moments, John added. "Who else has been getting tips this way?"

Lestrade bowed his head, thinking. "The only people that I know for sure that've received tips this way are me and Dimmock."

"Interesting." John muttered to himself.

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing, nothing," John said.

"You must have picked up a couple of things just being around Sherlock," Lestrade mentioned.

"Why do you say that?" John asked cautiously.

"Because you're starting to sound like him." Lestrade caught the look that John shot him. "In a good way!" he said.

"How can I sound like Sherlock in a 'good way'?" John asked.

"In the clever, 'look at the evidence' way, not the condescending, pompous way that makes you feel like you still belong in primary school."

* * *

_**.~*~. A/N .~*~.  
**_

_**Does anybody know what 'Rat. Wedding. Bow.' means? Why does Moffat have to be so damn cryptic?**_

_**R&R, please!**_

* * *

_**If you're reading this for a second time and thinking that something's changed, you're not imagining it. I, in fact, did go back and change it. I asked for someone to beta this fic, and Esther Kirkland, who is not only a fantastic beta reader but also a brilliant writer, has gone above and beyond what I expected of anyone. Big thanks to you, Essie! :D**_


	2. Family is all we have, in the end

About two weeks after that, John came back to the flat after working an extra shift. He had worked fourteen hours straight and was exhausted. He was already stressed about the rent. He knew he couldn't afford the rent, even if Mrs Hudson kept the deal she had with Sherlock. But he couldn't bear to move out. That would mean moving all of Sherlock's things. That's not something he could do, not yet.

Not to mention he felt that he had to stay and take care of Mrs Hudson. Sherlock had become quite attached to her during his stay here, one point towards the argument that he actually had a heart. _Like mother and son, those two._ John half-smiled as he remembered the way Sherlock dealt with the American who'd broken into their flat and hurt Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen with the mail. "There's some mail for you, John."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He took them from her and looked at them with out opening them. _Bills, bills, more bills. Hullo, what's this?_ There was an envelope addressed to Mrs. Hudson, from Mycroft.

"Mrs. Hudson, there's an envelope here for you. It must have gotten mixed up with my mail. It's from Mycroft." He handed it back to her. "What is it? An apology? Fat lot of good that is."

Mrs. Hudson scolded him. "Now, don't be like that, John. I don't know what exactly happened and I don't need or want to. Besides, I think whatever you think Mycroft did he regrets it and what it did to Sherlock."

"Why do you say that?" John asked.

"Every month, I get a letter just like this one, with a cheque in it. Only the first one had a note in it, saying that it was to help with the rent, and that as long as you lived here, I would keep getting cheques like this each month."

"What?" John asked. It was hard to believe that Mycroft, the "caring is not an advantage" spokesman, would be sentimental. "Why?"

"Well, my guess is because he cares more than he lets on. Sherlock was his little brother after all, and you and I, we're the closet thing to friends he ever had."

"Sherlock doesn't have-" He closed his eyes and revised his sentence. "Didn't. Sherlock _didn't_ have friends."

"No, he didn't." Mrs. Hudson agreed. "But he did have family." Then she left.

_So why on Earth was _I_ the last person that he called? _John thought.

* * *

_**.~*~. Read and review, please! .~*~.**_


	3. Still has trust issues

_John's mobile rang as he exited the cab outside of St. Bart's Hospital. It was Sherlock. He answered it. "Hello?"_

_"John?" He heard Sherlock's voice say. It had an odd tone to it and he was concerned the all the more. He jogged across the street towards the hospital._

_"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?" He asked._

_"Turn around and walk back the way you came." Sherlock ordered. _

_John didn't stop walking towards the hospital. "No, I'm coming in."_

_"Just do as I ask!" Sherlock sounded frantic. John stopped, just on the other side of the street. He had never heard Sherlock sound like that, not ever. "Please!" Sherlock begged._

_"Where?" John asked. He walked back across the street._

_When he'd reached the corner, Sherlock said, "Stop there."_

_"Sherlock?" John asked._

_"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."_

_John looked up._ What the hell is he doing on the rooftop?_ John thought, but only briefly. "Oh, god." He said._

_"I-I... I can't come down." Sherlock said. "So we'll just have to do it like this."_

_"What's going on?" John said. He already knew some of it but he didn't want to believe it._

_"An apology." Sherlock said. "It's all true."_

_"What?"_

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."_

Nononono. No, you didn't. You couldn't have. _John thought. "Why are you say this?" He asked._

_"I'm a fake." Sherlock said, his voice breaking._

_"Sherlock-"_

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade. I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly." He was crying now. "In fact, tell everyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."_

_"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up." John told him. There had been, there had always been a doubt. Just a niggling little thought at the back of his mind, and Sherlock was feeding it, making the Doubt stronger. _

_"The first time we met," he said, as if trying to convince himself. "The _first time_ we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_"Nobody could be that clever." Even as he heard Sherlock said this, John felt the Doubt slipping into the recesses of his mind. _

_"You could." John said, with the honesty of a best friend. _

_Sherlock laughed. "I researched you." He finally said. "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick." He said._

_"No." John said. Something was off. This wasn't Sherlock. The man John once described as somebody who would outlive god trying to have the last word. "Stop it now!" John started across the street again, to stop him._

_"No, stay exactly where you are!" Sherlock ordered. "Don't move!"_

_John stepped back a few paces. "Alright."_

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock ordered. "Please, will you do this for me?" He begged._

_"Do what?" John asked._

_"This phone call, it's, uh... it's my note." Sherlock said. "That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

Nonononononononono._ It ran like a mantra now, through John's mind. "Leave a note when?" He asked, fearing he already knew the answer._

_It felt like he waited an eternity for an answer._

_"Good-bye, John."_

_Good-bye, John._

_Good-bye, John._

* * *

"John?" The therapist said. "John, are you still listening?"

John looked up. "Yes, yes, of course."

"You know, of course, that Sherlock is dead. He can't be wandering around London uprooting people's affairs."

"Yes I know." He opened his mouth to say more, but shut it again.

"But?" Ella prodded.

"But... what?" John said.

"What were you going to say?" She asked.

John remained silent. _Could I actually tell her? Or would she think I was imaging things?_

Ella was patient. She waited for a long time before speaking again. "John, these sessions are only going to help you, if you are _willing_ to let me help you. What were you going to say?"

"It's just..." John squinted out the window, avoiding eye contact. "It's just a feeling I get."

"What kind of feeling?" Ella asked. No answer. She tried a different tact. "Describe it to me."

"Sometimes... the conversation we had That Day, before he..."

"What about the conversation, John?"

"Our conversation will keep replaying in my head. And every time..." John said. "Every time, I get this feeling, like something doesn't add up. That something doesn't make sense."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I knew Sherlock, or I thought I did. He may have been a sociopath, insensitive, ignorant, dismissive, and generally a pain, but not suicidal. Not Sherlock."

"But he had used drugs before. Maybe he relapsed, or there was an imbalance in his brain. As a doctor, intellectually, you know that's a possibility." She said kindly. "The fact is that you may never know what actually happened."

"That's not it. There was something else." John said. "He said to stay where I was. To not take my eyes off of him when he jumped. To witness…" He choked up, and took a moment before continuing. "To witness him jumping. Like he needed an audience for some reason. I don't _know_ why."

His left hand started shaking. The tremors had returned a sometime after That Day, and worse than before. John clenched his fist a few times. Hoping to distract himself, John's eyes flicked up to the therapist's notepad as she wrote. _Believes that Sherlock's death was staged, _She wrote.

"That's not what I said."

Ella looked up at him. "What?"

"I never said that I thought that his death was staged. I said there was something that didn't make sense."

The therapist held the board up so that he couldn't see what she was writing, but he could see that she only pretended to erase it and wrote down something else. Lestrade had been right. He must have picked up a few things from Sherlock because John knew what she was writing now.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues', didn't you? " He asked.

She looked up at him, shocked. "Are you serious?"

"With a line under 'still' for emphasis." He added. He looked her square in the eye. "Am I right?"

She didn't answer. She didn't have to. The look on her face told him.


	4. A coat, a hat, and a note

The next day, John was out walking. He'd started limping again. Only slightly, but enough to notice, and, John decided, definitely psychosomatic. It drove him insane. _Why, after all this time, do I start limping again? Damn leg._

He looked up. He thought he saw a tall man in a gray overcoat, collar turned up, just like Sherlock used to wear it. He was handing something to a girl sitting on the corner.

_Could it…_ He thought. Then he dismissed the thought as soon as he saw the stranger wearing the deerstalker cap. _Sherlock hates that hat._ _Hated._ He corrected himself._ He hated that hat. If he had the chance, he'd erase that hat from history._

"Do you have any change sir?" The girl asked as John passed by her. John looked at her. Homeless, obviously. Probably harder for them now, with the economy, and without Sherlock helping out here and there, asking them for help on cases and such. John pulled out a ten pound note and gave it to her. But as the money changed hands, the girl slipped a note into John hand. He started to ask what it was, but the girl shook her head ever so slightly.

John nodded back with a puzzled frown and took the note. Apparently, this was a private matter. He walked on a little bit further without looking at it. Finally curiosity got the better of his and stopped to read the note.

_St. Bartholomew hospital, in the morgue. Twenty minutes. Be there, or be bored._

He looked back to the girl who gave him the note, but she was gone.

_Right._ He thought. _St. Barts, twenty minutes._ He walked to the nearest busy road and tried to hail a cab. One pulled up in front of him and he got in. "St. Bartholomew Hospital, please. I need to be there in twenty minutes." He said.

The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror. "Everything alright, sir?" He said in a cockney accent.

John nodded. "I'm fine, I'm just… meeting someone there. I think."

The cabbie pulled away from the curb and John sunk into thought, trying to figure out who would want him to meet him at St. Barts, of all places, and use the homeless network to tell him, of all things.

"Are you Dr. Watson?" The cabbie asked.

John was startled. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He was, by nature, a little suspicious, and his mind flashed back to the events in 'A Study in Pink'.

"I said, are you Dr. Watson, that famous blogger?" The cabbie asked again.

"Why?" John workied his phone out of his pocket, poised to dial Lestrade.

"I follow your blog, Doctor. Right fascinating stuff, those mysteries are." The cabbie said.

John relaxed a bit. "It's always nice to meet a fan, I suppose." He could see the cabbie smile just a bit.

"I never said that I was a fan, Dr. Watson. I only said that I follow your blog. But it's been a bit slow of late, Dr. Watson." He commented.

John put his mobile back in his pocket. "Yes, well, that's what happens when the man you write the blog about dies."

The cabbie shook his head. "Couldn't you 'ave helped the police on other cases, after Mister Holmes died?"

John smiled and said, "I didn't have the mind for it like Sherlock did. And the police don't go to amateurs for help."

"I wouldn't say that, Doctor. You'd be a dab hand at _writing_ mysteries, anyhow." The cabbie picked up a book off the passenger seat and handed it back to John. "I'm a bit of a writer m'self. I am a bit partial to psychology, and you get to know a lot about people just by driving them around."

John took it and read the title out loud. "My Life as a Cab Driver: a Shocking Exposé on the 'Secrets' of London Town and its Peoples." He handed it back. "Sounds fascinating."

The cabbie waved the book back towards John. "You keep that, Dr. Watson. It's the least I can do. You look like the type to enjoy a bit of reading, anyways, Dr. Watson."

"Thank you..." He looked at the book for the man's name. "Hamish Adler."

"Like I said, Dr. Watson. It's the least I can do." He pulled up to the curb outside of St. Barts Hospital. "We're here, Dr. Watson."

John paid the fare and said, "Keep the change. For the book." John climbed out of the cab.

"Thank you, Doctor. Good luck on your case!" The cabbie said.

John was confused. "Why do you think I'm here on a case?"

"Well, why else would you be here, Dr. Watson?" The cabbie pulled away without waiting for an answer.

John watched the cab disappear into traffic, and looked at his watch. He hurried into the hospital, book in hand, and limped down to the morgue.

_Fair point, though. _He thought. _Why _would _I be told to come if it wasn't for a case?_

* * *

**_.~*~. A/N .~*~.  
_**

**_If anyone can figure out what part of this chapter is both a clue, and a reference a specific line in the show, you get a hedgehog shaped cookie!_**


	5. Games

John wasn't all that surprised to see Lestrade there. He looked over at John as he walked into the room.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

"I could ask you the same question, but I think I know the answer. I assume you're on a case."

Lestrade nodded. "I am. How'd you find out so fast?"

"I was told to come here." John replied. "And before you ask, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. What happened?"

Lestrade nodded. "There was another note, this time telling us where to find a crime scene."

"Presumably a body?" John asked.

"If it weren't a body, we wouldn't be in a mortuary, would we, Dr. Watson?"

"S'pose not." John agreed. "How were they killed? How was the body found?"

Lestrade hesitated in answering. "You know I'd be breaking the rules letting you in on this case, especially all the crap the commissioner's been putting me through because I let Sherlock in on a few cases."

"Then I appreciate it all the more for that, Greg." John said.

Lestrade thought for a moment before he gave in. "Fine," he agreed. "But if anybody asks, you are conducting a private investigation, not associated with police in any way. Got it?"

John nodded. "Got it."

Lestrade handed him the file on the case. "A body was found yesterday underneath an overpass in central London. At first glance it looked like mugging gone wrong, except there was a message."

John opened the file. The man's face looked familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen him before. "How was he killed?" John asked.

"I'm still waiting to hear that from Miss Hooper." Lestrade said.

It was at this moment Molly entered into the room. "Hello, Detective. John? What are you doing here?" She looked genuinely concerned, but John didn't think anything of it.

"I was told to come here." John said.

Molly seemed to accept this, but was still a little uneasy. "Okay. I'm not done with the autopsy. There are a lot of injuries, but I think I've narrowed down the cause of death. A knife was thrust into his kidney at a low angle, and twisted. His body would gone into immediate shock. The other stab wounds were delivered after he was already dead."

"Time of death?" Lestrade asked.

"Approximately eleven thirty, night before last."

"And the other injuries?" John asked.

"There are compression fractures to his left femur, hairline fractures to both forearms, and two shattered kneecaps, all suffered perimortem."

"Meaning?" Lestrade prompted.

"Meaning that this man probably jumped off of something tall some time before he died, causing the injuries to the femur, forearms and kneecaps." Molly said. "Also his fingers were broken around the time of death, most likely when he was still alive."

"He was tortured?" Lestrade said.

"It would seem so." John replied. "And finally killed by stabbing him in the kidneys." John turned to Lestrade. "You said that there was a message left with the body?"

Lestrade nodded. "Graffitied on the wall right next to where the body was found. The paint was still wet when they found it."

"And what did it say?" John asked.

"We don't know what it means. But it doesn't look good." Lestrade said, taking a picture out of the case file and handing it to John. And there, in big black capital letters-

**LET THE GAMES BEGIN**

* * *

_**.~*~. A/N .~*~.  
**_

_**I don't precisely know what kind injuries you would get by falling off, let's say, a one story building, but from the research I did, even if you knew how to fall, you would obviously sustain severe injury. I am not a medical professional, and if I am wrong about the kind of injuries you would sustain from an approximately ten foot fall, please tell me so that I can correct it.**_

_**Otherwise, R&R, please!**_


	6. Player Number Two

"What do you think it means?" Lestrade asked.

John replied, "I think it means that we're going to find another body."

"Donovan's gone to interview the victim's family, see if there's anybody who wanted this guy dead." Lestrade said. "But if this is only first in a series of murders, we'll have to look somewhere else before long."

"For a stabbing, there doesn't seem to be a lot of blood." John noted. "Was he moved?"

"Yes. And the killer did a good job at removing any evidence they left behind, so there's not much to go on."

"Do you mind if I borrow this?" John asked, holding up the picture of the graffiti.

"What are you going to do with it?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm going to show it to an expert. If I can find him."

"I'll come with you. Things are a little tight at Scotland Yard right now. Cut backs. I've been having to spend more time in the field, working my own leads." Lestrade said.

John smiled. "In other words, you don't have anything better to do."

"I wouldn't have put it so frankly, but yes." Lestrade replied. "And my boss will have my head if I let an amateur work alone on this case. No offense, John."

John shrugged. "None taken. I'm used to working with someone, anyways."

"Call me with the rest of the results, Molly." Lestrade said.

"So, who's this expert?" Lestrade asked as they left the hospital.

"His name is Raz." John said. "You may not want to come with me when I talk to him. If I can even find him."

"Why?"

"He's a graffiti artist, and I use the term 'artist' loosely. He might run if he sees you."

"Raz." Lestrade said. "I know that name. After that whole Moriarty business, I got demoted to community support officer, only briefly, and one of the kids I hauled in was named Raz."

"That sounds like the right kid." John said. "Do you know where we can find him?"

"I think his address is on record. Let's go have a word with him."

They approached the block of dingy flats where Raz and his parents lived. They knocked on the door and an older man answered it. The air that drifted out of the open door stank of stale cigarettes and sour food.

"Can I help you?" The man asked gruffly.

Lestrade showed the man his police badge. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Is Raz home?"

The man sighed. "What's Raz done this time?" He asked.

"Nothing." Lestrade replied. "We're just here to ask him a few questions."

"Just a minute, I'll go and get him." The man shut the door most of the way, and shouted into the rest of the flat. "Boy, there's someone at the door who wants to talk to you!"

The father and son continued bickering while Lestrade and John waited patiently by the door.

"So how do you know this kid?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't, but Sherlock did. Raz helped us on The Blind Banker case. He was the delinquent I mentioned in my blog, Sherlock's graffiti expert."

"The Blind Banker. That's right, the case that Dimmock worked?"

"Yes."

Raz finally cam to the door. "Aw, not you again. There's got to be some kind of law that keeps you from hassling me at my own house for things you can't prove I did."

Lestrade shook his head. "Not my division. Not any more, anyways. We're here to ask you for help on a case."

Raz crossed his arms. "And why should I help you?"

"Look, if you won't help because of your history with the law, we get it." John said. "But if Sherlock were alive, this would be his case anyway and he'd be here asking you the same question. Will you help, for Sherlock?"

Raz looked somber at the thought of Sherlock. "He help keep me out of YOI. I owed him one. Yeah, I'll help. For Sherlock. But just this once. Only this once. What do you need to know?"

John handed him the picture. "This graffiti was left at a crime scene. I thought that you might be able to tell us something about the artist or the paint or… something."

Raz took the picture and examined it. "This guy has no artistic talents. Simple block letters, nothing special about the paint. Looks like cheap spray paint you can find at any hardware shop. But there is something. See that symbol there, bottom right corner? Looks like the sight of a gun? It's the artist's tag, his signature. Where did you say it was?"

"At a crime scene." Lestrade said. "That's all you need to know."

"The best I can do is look out for any more like this." Raz said. "I'll see if I can find out anything else. No promises."

"You know where to find me if you find anything." John said. He and Lestrade turned to leave.

"Dad, I'm going out!" Raz shouted into the house, grabbed his skateboard and rushed down the hall past John and Lestrade. The wheel of the skateboard caught John's cane, nearly knocking him over. He caught himself before he fell completely over, and shot Raz a scathing look.

The little imp just grinned devilishly and went skate-boarding on down the railing of the stairs across the courtyard, around the corner and finally out of sight.

"So, where to next?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know."

John's phone rang. He looked at the screen. Blocked Number. He answered it.

"Hello?" He said.

There was no answer.

"Who is this?" He asked.

A woman's soft, lightly accented voice finally answered him. "Hello, Dr. Watson. Are you having fun?"

John looked confused and looked at his mobile. "I'm sorry, who is this?" He asked.

"I really do hope you're having fun, Watson." The woman said. "After all, I am doing this for you. I wouldn't want you to get bored."

"Who. Are. You." John said. "And what are you talking about?"

"Why, the murder, of course." The woman said. "You've been correct in your deductions so far. This is the first murder. And there will be more. Oh, so many more. I look forward to meeting you, Dr. Watson. I hope that you will at least be entertainment for me, if not clever enough to find me. I get bored."

"Why are you doing this?" John asked.

"I told you, Dr. Watson. I get bored. And when I get bored, I like to play games." The woman laughed lightly. "And it's your move, player number two." Then the line went dead.

* * *

_**R&R, please!**_


	7. Solomon Seabrooke

Lestrade looked at him. "What was that?"

"I don't know." John said. "But I think I just talked to our murderer."

"What did he say?" Lestrade asked.

"She." John said. "The murderer is a she."

"What did she say?" Lestrade prompted. "Her exact words."

"She said that I was right. That this was the first one, that there were going to be more murders. The last thing she said was 'I told you, Dr. Watson. I get bored. And when I get bored, I like to play games. And it's your move, player number two.' "

Lestrade was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You're officially on this case, Watson. It looks like you might be the only lead we've got."

"Brilliant." John said sardonically.

* * *

"Will you go over this for me again?" The chief superintendent said. "Just the part where you blatantly disobeyed your orders, Detective Inspector Lestrade, involving a civilian? Let alone an associate of Sherlock Holmes." He spit out the name like it was sour.

"I know, sir, but-"

"You know you may not be holding that title for very much longer, Lestrade, if you keep involving people who should know to stay out of police business."

"To be fair, my introduction to this case had nothing to do with Lestrade." John interjected.

"Yes, you said that before. Please, explain." The man said. "And maybe the good inspector won't be fired."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." John replied.

"Try me."

"Alright, but I warn you, it's a bit difficult to believe." John warned. "A homeless woman gave me a note. I think she was part of Sherlock's homeless network. She-"

"Homeless network?" The superintendent asked.

John nodded. "Sherlock preferred the homeless network over the police force for information. I still have the note." He took it out of his pocket, already a little crumpled, and handed it to the superintendent.

The superintendent took it and looked at it. "What about you, Lestrade? How did you get onto this case? You were supposed to be looking into a domestic disturbance fifteen blocks from where this man's body was found."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "I was on my way to the other case when I thought I saw something suspicious and thought I'd better investigate."

The superintendent looked between John and Lestrade. Finally he said, "Lestrade, if any of your other cases suffer, you will be pulled from the case. As for you, Mr Watson-"

"Doctor." John said. "Dr Watson."

"As for you, Dr Watson," the man amended, "you are to help on this case and this case only. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir." John gave him a mock salute, and he and Lestrade left the office in a hurry.

"So I'm guessing he doesn't know about the anonymous envelopes." John said.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. And he doesn't need to. What he doesn't know won't kill him."

"So where are we going now?" John asked as the reached the lift.

"I just got a text from Anderson. He didn't find anything else at the crime scene to indicate who the murderer was." Lestrade pulled out his mobile and called Donovan. "Have you found anything interesting?" John could a tinny voice answer on the other end of the connection.

"Could you put that on speaker?" John asked.

"Hm? Oh, right." Lestrade pushed a button and held the phone out so they could both hear and speak. "Sorry, could you say that again?" He asked Donovan.

"The man's name is Solomon Seabrooke," Donovan stated again. "Formerly employed by a consulting firm, which was dissolved about five years ago when it was revealed to be a cover for crimes later associated with Moriarty."

"What about his current job?" John asked.

"He worked for a temp agency."

"He worked at a temp agency, after he worked at a consulting firm that was operated by a criminal?" John asked.

"Yeah, looks that way." Lestrade said. "Why?"

"Maybe he was still on Moriarty's payroll after the job switch." John suggested. "Think about it. A legitimate place of business to hire thieves and assassins? It'd be the perfect place for him to work out of."

"We need to get on that agency." Lestrade agreed. "See what jobs he sent people to. Maybe something there got him killed. What about the Solomon's family?"

"He has mother in a dementia ward in Sussex, a father who died three years ago of a heart attack. He only has one sibling. A brother, David, who died in a car crash when he was thirteen. I did get the name of his girlfriend, though. Her name's Grace Pillars. She works at the same temp agency he does."

"Donovan, get to that temp agency and interview the girlfriend. John and I will meet you there."

* * *

A blonde woman sat across from the detective in the break room, crying. "I can't believe he's gone." Grace sobbed. "I only saw him yesterday."

"I know this is hard for you, Miss Pillars." Sally said. "But try to think. Did he say that he was going to meet someone, or where he was going, or anything?"

Grace wiped the tears from her eyes and tried to regain her composure. "Um, he and I were supposed to go out yesterday evening, but he cancelled at the last minute. He said that he need to go somewhere. There was a problem with one of the people that he sent to a job, something that he needed to take care of personally. This has happened before, so I wasn't surprised."

"Did it happen a lot?"

Grace shook her head. "No, just a few times."

"Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that could help us on the case?"

The woman thought for a moment. "I thought, a while ago, that he might have been taking bribes to place certain people in lucrative jobs, but he was so nice. I couldn't believe that he could do anything bad, especially after we started seeing each other." She looked at Donovan, eyes brimming with tears. "Please find the man who killed him. Please."

Sally nodded. "We'll do our best, Miss Pillars." She assured her.

"Oh, god." Grace started crying again. "We just got engaged. We were going to get married."

* * *

John and Lestrade walked into the man's cubicle. "Dr. Watson, go through his computer. Look for anything dodgy. I'll go through his client information."

"Right." John said. He leaned his cane against the desk and sat down the computer. "It's password protected." He informed Lestrade.

"Great. I'll get his supervisor." The detective left, and John was left sitting in the cubicle. He swiveled in the chair a little bit and took a look around the cubicle. He noted that there were only a few personal things on the desk; a couple of pictures, tickets for a film the next week-end, an old Koosh ball.

He took a closer look at the pictures on the man's desk. An old family portrait, probably his. A picture of him and his dog, with the caption, _Me and Corky_. A picture of an old married couple, taken a few years back. The husband was in a hospital bed. A few unframed pictures of him on holiday with a beautiful woman.

John picked up one of the unframed ones and looked on the back. _Me and Grace in the Bahamas_, it read. Bored, John set it down and looked around the rest of the cubicle. He leaned back in the office chair and looked across the way. He read the name on the cubicle across from Solomon's. It was Grace Pillars.

John thought back to the Baskerville case. _Sherlock was able to deduce Major Barrymore's password within a minute._ John thought._ It didn't seem that hard. Then again, he was Sherlock Holmes. I suppose it couldn't hurt to try, though._ John tried a password.

_Grace Pillars._

**Incorrect password.**

_Gracie_, he tried.

**Incorrect password.**

John looked at the picture of the old couple again. _Probably his parents. Married, what, forty years? A picture of them, sitting right next pictures of his girlfriend._ He tried a slightly different password.

_Grace Seabrooke_

**Correct password. Loading...**


	8. Threatened

Lestrade and the supervisor came back over to the cubicle.

"Sorry, Lestrade. I guessed the password while you were away."

"Have you found anything yet?" Lestrade asked.

"Actually, I have. He was being threatened. Not on his personal email, but his business email."

"Any idea who?"

"Someone with the initials SM." John replied.

"What do the emails say?" Lestrade leaned on the cubicle wall reading over John's shoulder.

"Among other threats, 'Get my man into that job, or your girlfriend is Scotland Yard's next unsolved murder'. Looks like Solomon did what they wanted, because the next email says, 'Make sure my guy stays there; do what ever you have to do. All my resources are at you disposal. But if you double cross me, I will crush you like an ant under my boot."

"What job? It sounds like this guy was in trouble but I can't tell anything from the files. Everything seems to be normal."

"Maybe it wasn't an illegal job." John suggested. "Maybe they just needed to get someone into a certain job to get information, or access to something."

"The question is, access to what, exactly?" Lestrade checked his phone. "Right, I have to run but you can go through that computer until the computer techs from Scotland Yard get here"

"Hold on, where are you going?" John swiveled to face Lestrade as he put his phone back in his pocket.

"I don't know what Sherlock's caseload was like, but in the real world, real detectives have more than one case, and we usually can't solve them in a couple of day. I'll get back to this case once somebody finds a solid lead. I'll see you later."

"Right." John turned back to the computer and pulled up the job files. _Secretary at a law firm, dental assistant, computer technician at The Sun, etc. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No other mention of SM._ He tried looking into Solomon's calendar. On the day that he'd died, Solomon had written a time, 4:00, and then something after that, but he could hardly read it.

"Well, I heard it, but I didn't quite believe it."

John looked up. "Oh. Hello, Sally. How's Anderson?"

She scowled. "Right, like you care. What are you doing here?"

John looked back at the calender. "Working on this case, same as you."

"Without the Freak?" She regretted it the moment it slipped out.

John was angered by the nickname, but tried not to show it. "Yeah, well, he couldn't exactly make it." He said cuttingly. "I'm kind of surprised you didn't go with Lestrade on his other case."

"He told me to stay here with you, something about not letting a civilian work the case alone."

"Did you get any leads from the girlfriend?" John asked.

Sally shook her head. "No. She has no idea what he could have been doing. She said that she thought he may have been taking bribes at one point, but nothing concrete. I couldn't get much more out of her, though. She was pretty worked up. Apparently they were supposed to have dinner last night but he canceled at the last possible minute."

John froze, "When?"

Sally raised an eyebrow. "When... what?"

"When did he cancel dinner with her?" John asked impatiently.

Sally took her notes out and double-checked. "Uh, three in the afternoon. About the time he left, too."

John locked the computer again and got up."Molly said that he'd been killed the night before last. There is no way Grace could have seen or talked to him yesterday." John started walking away.

Sally followed him. "Where are you going? We have to wait for the tech guys to show up."

"We need to talk to her again. Where is she right now?"

"I told her to take the day off and go home. But we can't-"

John was halfway across the office by now. "We need to catch her before she leaves. I'll go down to the car park, see if I can find her, you can wait."

He was just in time to just catch sight of her driving away and pulling out into traffic.

Sally came down in the lift. "Did you catch her?"

"No. She just left."

"Come on." Sally turned around and went back into the lift. "Her bosses probably have her address on record."

* * *

They pulled up outside a dilapidated, abandoned and very old apartment building in Central London. John picked up the slip of paper that had the woman's address on it and looked at the building in front of him again. "This can't be right."

"This is definitely the address where she said she lived."

They both sat in the car for a moment more.

"Should we check it out anyway?" John asked.

"Probably." Sally said. She reached into the glove box, pulled out a couple of torches, and handed one to John.

"Thanks."

They got out of the car and approached the building.

"I hate houses like this." Sally said.

"They remind me of that house on Doctor Who. The one with the Weeping Angels?" John asked.

Sally nodded in agreement. "This sounds childish, but after I saw it, I left all my lights on at night for a week."

"You don't seem the type to scare easily." John commented. "Or the type to be interested in Doctor Who."

They went up the old wooden door and John tried to open it.

"I think it's locked." John studied the door carefully.

"Let's try one of the windows." Sally said, and quickly slipped around the corner, thinking that John was following right behind her.

John, however, was still at the front door. He tried opening the door again, and realized that the wood was only warped and the door was stuck fast to its frame.

He sat down his torch then turned the knob one more time, and slammed his good shoulder into the door, knocking it open with a resounding crack.

"Sally, I've got it open." He called. "Sally?"

_She must have found her own way in._ John thought, and entered the darkened building.

* * *

Sally, meanwhile, had found a window that had been broken open and made her way into the building.

She noted that the dust was thick and undisturbed. She was making her way to the front door to let John in, when there was loud crack.

Instinctively she took cover against a wall and turned off her flashlight. She heard the thud of approaching footsteps, slowly, quietly, then the sound of metal; possibly a gun being drawn. She held her breath as the figure walked closer. And closer.

Someone stood just outside the room now. She held the torch up in the air, ready to strike who or whatever may enter…

"Sally?" John called.

She relaxed when she heard him. "John?"

He walked into the room where she was. "Hi. I got the door open. It was only stuck. You find any sign of her yet?"

Sally shook her head. "No this place has been closed up for so long. I'd be amazed if there's anything living here. The dust is so thick I could write my name in it."

_Dust is eloquent. You can put back everything but dust._ Sherlock's words echoed on John's mind, and his features were tugged into a small, brief smile.

Sally sighed. "We need to go back to the Yard, and see if we can find her real address."

"Right." John smiled at Sally. "I'll meet you back at Scotland Yard tomorrow; right now I'm going home. It's been a hell of a day."

Sally regarded him questioningly. "You do know you aren't supposed to work on the case by yourself?"

"Of course I do," he retorted. "Text me if there are any new leads."

* * *

_**.~*~. A/N .~*~.**_

_**Thank you, YYHfan-KB and Esther Kirkland, for beta-ing this chapter!**_

_**R&R, please!**_


	9. I think better when I talk aloud

_**.~*~. A/N .~*~.**_

_**Oh, man. I'm really sorry that this took so long to update. My crazy life, I mean, really...**_

_**Anyway, many, many thanks goes to my beta reader, Tiva-Jisbonxxx!**_

_**To the rest of you, enjoy!**_

* * *

John took a cab back to the flat. He had both hands in his pockets and was lost in thought as approached 221 Baker Street, when he noticed a familiar and unwelcome figure waiting outside.

"What do you want, Miss Riley?" He asked coldly.

Kitty regarded him carefully. "I'm just here to talk."

"I'm not. Have a nice day." John moved to get around her, but she blocked his way.

"I really do just want to talk."

"Why?" John asked. "I don't _trust_ you. You protected Moriarty. He is a criminal and he lied to you and, well, basically the world."

"His name was Richard Brook," she said firmly. "Not Moriarty, and Rich wasn't a criminal-"

"Oh, we're calling him Rich, now?" He said sarcastically. "I hope you two are very happy together."

"-I was _asked _to do a piece on 'Life after Sherlock Holmes'." Kitty continued. "I would really appreciate your cooperation."

"It's been almost a year." John said. "Why now?"

Kitty shrugged. "Because it's been almost a year. To be honest, I don't really know why. When are you avail-"

"No." John shook his head. "Everyone has forgotten about the whole thing. I don't want the whole event relived again and again just so that you can sell a few more papers." He tried to walk around her.

"But there are a lot of questions-" Kitty stepped in front of him again. "-About the friends and family of Sherlock, how they're dealing with his suicide."

"You want to know how I'm doing?" John asked cynically. "I'm British. I'm a soldier. We carry on. Now go home, Miss Riley." He pushed past her and opened the door to 221.

"What about-"

John turned around. He was on the stoop of the building and he was in the unique position of towering over Kitty Riley.

"You want more for your story, Miss Riley? How about this? An innocent man, who happened to be my best friend, by the way, is dead." John spoke through his teeth. "Sherlock Holmes died because of the article you wrote. Because of you wanted your first big story. Let me ask you a question, Kitty. Was it worth it? Did you get your big story and your own office? A special parking space?"

Kitty stood, speechless, her mouth agape.

"Sherlock's blood is on your hands, Miss Riley." John said coldly. "Good night. Sleep well. Or don't."

He turned around and walked through the open door. "I don't care." He slammed the door behind him.

* * *

John stomped up to the flat and tossed his coat over a chair. He paced around for a moment, fuming at that infuriatingly callused reporter. He walked to the window and saw her wave down a briefly felt sorry for her when he saw her reach up to wipe away tears.

Then he was angry again. Her tears were nothing compared to what he'd been through. Just..._nothing. She _was nothing.

He heard Mrs. Hudson walk up the stairs, and knock on the door. "John?"

John sighed. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. You can come in if you like."

She opened the door. "I heard shouting. Is everything alright?"

John smiled wanly. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'm fine."

"You've been out all day." Mrs. Hudson said. "Where have you been?"

"Around. Actually, I'm helping on a case."

Mrs. Hudson was surprised. "A police case?"

John nodded. "It's... it's one Sherlock would have loved." He smiled.

"How so?"

"Mysterious notes, cryptic messages left at a crime scene, a murder."

She smiled. "He would've loved that. I'll never know why. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

"I thought you weren't my housekeeper." He said. John had taken to saying things that Sherlock would've around Mrs. Hudson. It seemed to cheer her up.

She smiled back at him. "I'm not." She walked towards the door, but stopped before she started back down the stairs. "John, where's your cane got off to?"

"My cane?" He asked. He flexed his hand and realized that it was empty.

* * *

_"Did you get any leads from the girlfriend?" John asked._

_Sally shook her head. "No. She has no idea what he could have been doing. She said that she thought he may have been taking bribes at one point, but nothing concrete. I couldn't get much more out of her, though. She was pretty worked up. Apparently they were supposed to have dinner last night but he canceled at the last possible minute."_

_John froze, "When?"_

_Sally raised an eyebrow. "When... what?"_

_"When did he cancel dinner with her?" John asked impatiently._

_Sally took her notes out and double-checked. "Uh, three in the afternoon. About the time he left, too."_

_John locked the computer again and got up."Molly said that he'd been killed the night before last. There is no way Grace could have seen or talked to him yesterday." John started walking away._

_Sally followed him. "Where are you going? We have to wait for the tech guys to show up."_

* * *

"I must have... misplaced it."

"Well, I'm glad to see you without it." Then she went back downstairs.

John looked down at his hand, empty of the walking cane, and half-smiled_. Sherlock would have appreciated the irony of this. I help Lestrade on a case and by the end of the I'm not limping anymore. Again._

He stayed up late thinking about the case, going over every detail in his mind. Not that he could have slept, anyway. He'd had increasingly prevalent bouts of insomnia ever since the fall. He lay on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. It had seemed to help Sherlock. Why wouldn't it help him?

Finally he decided that it wasn't working and got up to make a cup of tea. He opened the fridge to get the milk, and almost missed the days that he would find evidence and body parts in the fridge. _Almost._

He took his tea back into the living room. And saw the skull sitting on the mantle, and remembered Sherlock used talk to the skull.

* * *

_"Have you talked to the police?" John asked._

_"Four people are dead." Sherlock reminded him. "There isn't time to talk to the police."_

_John was confused now. "So why are you talking to me?" He asked._

_Sherlock looked forlornly at the empty space on the mantle. "Mrs Hudson took my skull."_

_John turned around and looked at the mantle above the fireplace. It was, indeed, empty. "So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"_

_Sherlock smiled. "Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"_

_"Well what?" John asked, more annoyed than cross._

_"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly." Sherlock said scathingly._

_"You want me to come with you?" John asked._

_"I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud." Sherlock said. "The skull just attracts attention."_

* * *

Again, a small smile tugged at his face. He sat in his chair and looked at over at the skull again.

_I think better when I talk aloud._

The words rolled around John's mind for a few seconds. _I'm going to talk to a skull because my friend used to. Nothing weird about that at all._

"It's all a game to her." He started. "The woman who called me. She said it was a game. And I'm part of it. Somehow. Why me? Is it because of Sherlock? Has to be, no other connection."

He thought for a moment. "That man, he was connected, too. What could he know that would get him killed? No, not just killed, tortured. There's got to be something else in those jobs. Or maybe it's not something not work related. Personal life? No living relatives, except the mother. Not much she could do from a dementia ward. What about his friends?" He realised that they knew little to nothing about the dead man's friends, and mentally kicked himself for not looking for the man's calender further, or anything really, to lead to any of the man's friends.

"O-kay..." He said, drawing out the vowels. "No leads with the family, and we can look into his friends later. What about the phone call? Why did she call? Part of the game, I suppose. What _is_ her game?"

John kept thinking. He was having trouble keeping things straight in his head. How did Sherlock manage it? Finally he got up and got his laptop. He needed to make a list. _Sherlock wouldn't have needed a list. At least not on paper. _

He reminded himself. _Yeah, well I'm not Sherlock. Get used to it._

**The clues we've found so far**

_1.A note given to me by a complete and total stranger. No idea who he (or they) were  
2. An anonymous note given to Lestrade, untraceable  
3. A man was tortured (for information?) and killed  
4. The graffitied message, LET THE GAMES BEGIN. Who wrote it?_  
_5. The phone call from a mysterious woman_  
_6. He was being threatened through his business email_  
_7. Who is _'_SM'?_  
_8. His girlfriend lies about the last time she saw him_  
_9. Girlfriend had fake address, turned out to be an abandoned apartment building_

He looked at the list. "This adds up to something. It has to. What is it... Personal life. The girlfriend, maybe? Why did she have a false address, though? Is she hiding something? We definitely need to find her." He looked at the clock. Just after eleven at night.

_Case like this, Lestrade is probably still at Scotland Yard working on it._ John got his phone out and texted him.

_Got any leads on Pillars? JW_

_No. She never existed. GL_

_What do you mean, she never existed? Who did Donovan question then? JW_

_Well, she did exist. Grace Pillars is the name of a child born over thirty years ago, who died shortly after birth. But six months ago, the same Grace Pillars takes a job at the temp agency. GL_

_So, someone stole Grace Pillars' identity? JW_

_Looks like it. GL_

"Okay, so definitely something strange going on with the going on with the girlfriend." John said out loud. "Why though? I wonder who she really was. And what made that man so important?" John sat thinking in his chair, his forgotten tea growing cold.

* * *

A while later, John got another text from Lestrade.

_They've just found another body. Same M.O. as the last one. Killed at another location then moved and graffiti with a cryptic message. I'm at the crime scene right now. GL_

_Did you get another anonymous note this time too? JW_

_No note this time. Some kids just found him. Are you coming? GL_

_Of course I'm coming. I'll be there as quick as I can. JW_

_Alright, the address is (address withheld) GL_

John got his coat and printed out a copy of the list of clues so far. They might help keep things straight in his head. As he left, a man approached him.

"John Watson?" He asked.

"Yes." John replied. "Can I help you?"

The man smiled. "My name is Danny Webb. I'm a journalist and I was wondering what you had to say about the recent sightings."

"Sightings?" John was puzzled. "What sightings?"

"The recent Sherlock sightings?" Danny said. "People have been calling up and saying that they've seen Sherlock. Surely you've heard of it?"

John was surprised. "Let's say I haven't. Where have people been seeing him?"

"Oh, all over the place." Danny said. "Do you have time for an interview?"

"No." John replied. "I'm busy. I was just heading out."

The reporter smiled amicably. "Another time then."

John stepped to the edge of the street and waved down a cab. He opened the door and started to get in when a young woman dashed across the street.

"Do you think I could share the cab with you? I just need a quick chat." She asked.

John had the suspicion that she was yet another journalist. "You don't even know where I'm going." He told her.

"I just need to talk to you for a bit. I'm a journalist." She looked desperate. "Just a quick, little interview?"

John shook his head. "Sorry, I've got places I need to be."

"Not even for five minutes?" The young woman pleaded.

"Sorry," he said, and climbed into the cab.

_This is bit weird. _He thought. _Three journalists, in the span of twenty-four hours?_

"Sightings." He muttered to himself. But he thought back, that only yesterday, he thought he'd seen Sherlock too.

_Impossible._

* * *

**_.~*~. A/N .~*~._**

**_Wow, this is a bit longer than most of my chapters. But I don't think you mind, do you? :D _**

**_Anyway, what are your thoughts on this chapter? R&R, or as I recently learned on Wiktionary, C&C!_**


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